


Just Another Silly Love Song

by Jessi



Series: Destiel Smut Brigade Valentine's Day Fic Dump [10]
Category: Supernatural, destiel - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Dean, Comeplay, Destiel Smut Brigade, Editor Castiel, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff and Smut, Human Castiel, M/M, Office Romance, Rimming, Romantic Comedy, Top Castiel, Writer Dean, implied casturbation, mentioned- Jo Harvelle/Charlie Bradbury, music magazine au, schmoopy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-13 00:14:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3360665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jessi/pseuds/Jessi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's December when Dean gets the bad news, January when Dean's life gets turned upside down, February 13th when it all falls apart.</p><p>Or, the one where Dean writes for a pretentious music magazine, Castiel works for the publishing company that takes it over, and they fight, fall in love, break each others hearts, make up, and make love, in that order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Another Silly Love Song

**Author's Note:**

> These fics are written for fans and brokenhearted queers with _needs_ so no you may not teach them in your class. I didn't go to college and neither will my fics. We're keepin' it real.
> 
> Supernatural as well as the characters within are the property of Warner Brothers and the CW. I’m pretty sure Destiel is too, whether they want to admit it or not. I am but a humble puppet master, making them dance to my will. Vogue and GQ are the property of Condé Nast, Cosmopolitan is the property of the Hearst Corporation. All 3 magazines are entirely fictionalized here. I’ve never met Taylor Swift, Carly Simon, Gerard Way, David Bowie, Pete Wentz, or Mick Jagger, but I’m sure they’re all lovely people. I never watch The Grammys. 
> 
> Unbetaed, but pretty meticulously self-edited. Apologies for anything I missed.

**December 19th 2014**

Despite being 3,000 miles apart, Dean knows exactly what would happen if Sam were there, first he’d almost definitely be wearing his smug face, then he’d do that dumb ‘told ya so’ smirk and with practiced false earnestness he’d say to him, “You know what happens when you assume…”

Luckily Sam is not there, instead he's all the way across the country in California with his perfect wife, perfect son, perfect job, perfect dog, perfect _everything_. Because Sam is smart. Sam went to law school, got himself a proper grown-up job.

Dean, Dean is not smart. Dean is pretty positive he’s actually an idiot. Because idiocy is the only rational explanation for why he ever thought Bobby would name him Editor-In-Chief of Salt ’n’ Burn.

It was October that everything started. Kevin, who in addition to covering metal for the magazine also served as the resident number cruncher, was in and out of Bobby’s office far more frequently than usual. Also new, the closed door while they’d talk. Bobby’s door was never closed. At first Dean thought maybe something was up with Kevin, but besides being more harried and frazzled than usual, the kid seemed fine. Then Kevin started bringing those giant notepads into Bobby’s office, the kind people stick on easels for presentations. Then came the suits, men and women Dean had never seen before, showing up seemingly at random and disappearing behind Bobby’s door with he and Kevin, all through November and into December.

Dean thought, foolishly, that they were just lawyers, they seemed tight-assed enough to be. Bobby was getting up there, and it wasn’t unreasonable to assume he was retiring.

On that part he was right. He was just wrong on one crucial detail.

See, Dean is, no bragging intended, the top writer at Salt ’n’ Burn. He damn well had better be, it’s all he’s dreamed of since he was 9 years old and started stealing his dad’s issues of the quarterly cult music magazine. He fell in love with the words, with the aesthetic, with the dusty feeling and astringent smell of the black and white newsprint pages.

His dad thought he was crazy, his mom thought he was adorable, his teachers thought he was fooling himself. A dyslexic 9 year old dreaming of becoming a music journalist, it was ridiculous.

But Dean was determined, he worked with tutors, and specialists, he learned to work with his learning disability rather than letting it work against him. In high school he joined the school paper, and covered the local music scene in Lawrence, sneaking into bars for 21+ shows and driving his mother up the wall with how often he broke curfew.

It was worth it though. One of his pieces won him a national award for excellence in high school journalism, and that award in turn helped him get into NYU to study journalism, which in turn landed him his internship at S’n’B, which led to him being hired on as a staff writer at 21.

He worked hard, and it paid off. Dean had the cover story for 7 of the last 10 issues. Bobby had taken him under his wing right away, and treated Dean like the son he never had. The man got Dean through breakups, food poisoning from bad Chinese food, and a bedbug infestation. The next logical step was naming Dean as his successor.

It’s the Christmas party, Dean’s last day in NYC before flying home to visit his family. Dean stands laughing over a platter of pastries with Charlie, a good friend and the tech guru running S’n’B’s web presence. Everyone is happy, Dean is surrounded by people he loves, in a place he loves, and then without warning, Bobby starts clinking his beer bottle with a plastic fork, trying to get everyone's attention. Dean knows, in his bones, this is it, he’s going to be the new Editor for S’n’B, except that’s not what comes out of Bobby’s mouth. Bobby sold the magazine to Garrison Publications, purveyors of glossy corporate bullshit. Some yuppie assclown is going to steal Dean’s job, and destroy everything good about S’n’B in the process.

 _***  
_ ****

**January 5th 2015**

It’s unseasonably warm for the beginning of January, and the office is even stuffier than usual. It doesn’t help with Dean’s misery, instead of heading into Bobby’s now former office and taking his rightful throne, he’s gathered in a half-circle with an assortment of other S’n’B writers and a few freelancers who happen to have dropped by on this, the darkest day of his 32 years on this earth.

Benny is to his left, mouth crammed full of stale donut but still trying to tell Dean _something_ but he isn’t paying attention because his hands are balled into fists, bitten nails digging white crescents into the meaty part of his palms, and he can hear his heart pounding in his ears, drowning out Benny, and drowning out the tousle-haired douchebag in the well-tailored suit currently trying to address the group, but struggling to raise his voice over the banging of a small team of movers attempting to move the ancient avocado green extra long sofa out of Bobby’s former office, and the other small team of movers attempting to circumnavigate the first team in order to put some fancy schmancy brand new leather sofa in its place.

The kind that squeaks sometimes when you sit on it.

The kind that your thighs stick to if you sit on it in the summer while wearing shorts. Not that he ever wears shorts. But still.

The kind apparently preferred by the sort of tousle-haired douchebags who work for Garrison Publications and who steal Dean’s job straight out from under him, ruining his beloved magazine in the process.

The tousle-haired douchebag clears his throat. The sound makes Dean’s teeth hurt.

He does it again, louder, and everyone goes quiet, even the movers.

“Thank you. As you all know, Garrison Publications recently acquired Salt ’n’ Burn from Mr. Singer. My name is Castiel Shurley. I’ve been with Garrison for the past 8 years, and they’ve entrusted me to act as your new Editor-In-Chief. I’m excited to get to know all of you, and for us to share our ideas for how we can make Salt ’n’ Burn even better. Does anyone have any questions?”

Dean sends up what turns out to be a fruitless prayer that nobody does, so he can just grab the notes for the pieces he’s working on off his desk (he prefers rough writing the old fashioned way, pen and paper) and get the fuck out of his dream job turned worst nightmare, but Jo pipes up before he can make his getaway.

“Does this mean we get health insurance?”

Which, ok, Dean can concede that’s a good question, he’s got a chipped molar from a barfight in his early twenties he wouldn’t mind getting fixed if they offer dental. After all, if he’s getting fucked in the decidedly not fun way, he might as well get something out of it.

Douche-Castiel replies “Yes, for full time writers we offer full benefits, alongside a buy in option for freelancers. As soon as my office is in order I’ll get that paperwork out to ev-“

He’s cut off by Rufus. Bless the old codger.

“Pardon me, _Mr. Shurley_ , but what the hell does Garrison want with a magazine like S’n’B anyway? Don’t you publish shit like Vogue and GQ? ‘Cause we sure as hell aren’t Vogue or GQ.”

And isn’t that just the $10,000 question. Dean had tried to ask Bobby, but Bobby had just replied “Fuck if I know, all I care is I’m taking the money, getting out of this miserable city, and retiring to the Dominican.”

Dean’s idol and mentor, ladies and gentlemen. Has he mentioned lately that he’s an idiot?

The tousle-haired douche-boss is more forthcoming. “Salt ’n’ Burn is an iconic brand, while it has been struggling some in the past handful of years with dropping circulation numbers, we at Garrison are excited to add it to our vast portfolio of quality publications, and we believe with just a few tweaks that we can turn those numbers around, and really grow this magazine into one of the top brands in music journalism.”

It’s at “tweaks” that Dean walks out, breaking the half-circle and stomping right past Castiel, through the cluster of incompetent movers, and straight out the door, notes long forgotten on his desk.

_***  
_

He’d have to get the heating and cooling system looked over, because it’s stuffy to the point of being unbearable. He makes a mental note. Castiel is good with mental notes, tracking tasks. He’s not good with people. Currently there’s a half-circle of them staring at him, and he should probably start speaking.

But really, it is hot. He starts to move his hand to loosen his tie, but aborts the movement almost immediately, While he’s near certain the t-shirt, jean, and sneaker clad gaggle of writers in front of him wouldn’t care, his suit is like a security blanket. It acts as a barrier. The suit speaks for him.

God does he wish that was literal.

“Hello-“ he attempts, but the bearded bear of a man is still talking to the pretty scowling one, and the movers bringing in the ridiculous sofa Naomi bought him as a congratulatory gift are making a ruckus and there’s a 90% chance he’s managed to sweat through his dress shirt so bad from nerves that he’ll have to throw it away.

He clears his throat, and the pretty scowling man visibly cringes.

Oh god, what is he even doing here? He should have stayed on under Naomi at Vogue, he was a great copy editor. He doesn’t even know anything about music. _Fuck_.

He manages to get things quiet enough to speak, and makes it through the speech he’d practiced for the last three weeks, and answers two questions, sort of, before the pretty scowling man storms out, and everything around him descends into chaos.

Goddamnit, what was he thinking? Castiel Shurley is many things, but an Editor-In-Chief? He’s not so sure about that.

***

Jo’s mom has a dive bar, it’s called The Roadhouse, and it’s only a few blocks away from the S’n’B offices in the East Village. Normally Dean tries to avoid day-drinking, too many bad choices over university summer breaks taught him well, but on a day like today, to hell with common sense.

Dean likes The Roadhouse. It has this unique quality that makes it ridiculously hip, a history of showcasing up and coming bands, it’s how Jo got into music in the first place, but it’s also really homey, and as soon as Dean walks in the door he feels some of his tension start to bleed out.

Jo’s mom Ellen spots him right away, the bar empty as expected at 11AM on a Monday.

“Hey kid,” because everyone is ‘kid’ to Ellen, even 32 year old music journalists with too much student loan debt and shitty apartments in Queens, “meeting over already?’

Ellen knows everything, always. It’s her superpower, that or she has Jo’s phone bugged. Both are possibilities.

“Hell if I know.”

Ellen does the mom voice, “ _Dean_.” and damn does Dean wish his own mother wasn’t all the way in Lawrence.

Ellen sighs, softens a little “Kid, we all thought you’d get that job, and nobody is happy about the way things went down, hell, if Bobby hadn’t skipped the country with his tail tucked between his legs I’d ring his neck myself, but you’ve got to give this new situation a chance, maybe it won’t be as terrible as you’re fearing.”

Even punctuated with Ellen wrapping an arm around him and hugging him from the side as he slumps down on his favorite bar stool, Dean still feels like his kindergarten teacher Miss Missouri just made him go sit in the corner for pulling Lisa Braeden’s pigtails, and he deflates even further, “You’re probably right.”

Ellen squeezes him again, “I always am.”

Then she circles back behind the bar and pulls him a dollar draft. The piss water beer doesn’t do much, but the shot of cheap rotgut whiskey she sits down next to it warms Dean’s belly, and he starts to think that maybe things really might not be so bad after all.

_***_

**January 8th 2015**

It’s three days before Castiel lays eyes on the pretty scowling man again. It was through process of elimination, and some prudent listening that he figured out the pretty scowling man is Dean Winchester.

Dean is important. Mr Singer had made it clear that nobody knew Salt ’n’ Burn like Dean, and Castiel knows that he needs Dean on his side if he wants to save the floundering magazine and make it flourish.

But Dean is angry. Mr Singer had also warned him that would be the case, but Castiel had hoped he was wrong.

He wasn’t wrong. Dean has been avoiding him. Castiel knows he’s been in the offices because things keep moving around his desk, but he comes and goes like a professional criminal, managing to elude his new editor.

On January 8th Castiel gets lucky. Or half lucky anyway.

He’s walking back to his office from the kitchen turned break room, the magazine offices situated in a converted old railroad flat, when he’s slammed into by a wall of nicely muscled flesh, spilling searing hot coffee on both he and the wall.

Or rather, on he and Dean.

“What the fuck?” Dean barks out, then reddens, seemingly at realizing who he’s talking to.

“Shit,” he mumbles, “I uhhh.” he rubs at the back of his neck, crestfallen and ashamed.

Castiel shouldn’t find it as endearing as he does.

Castiel carefully plucks his hot soggy shirt away from his aching abdomen, “It’s alright, accidents happen.”

Dean grimaces.

“Dean, right?” Castiel asks, acting as though he isn’t sure.

Dean looks up from his sodden Doors t-shirt, and how had Castiel not noticed how beautiful his eyes are before?

“Uhhh, yeah, I’m Dean.” Dean thrusts out his hand to shake Castiel’s, and he has to fumble his half empty coffee mug to his other hand to take it, Dean continues, “It’s nice to meet you Mr Shurley.”

Castiel can tell he’s lying, but part of him, the part that enjoys hearing Dean’s rumbling voice say his name, doesn’t especially care.

Castiel shakes Dean’s hand, firm, two pumps, just like former Garrison CEO Zachariah Adler taught him back when Castiel was a lowly intern.

“It’s nice to meet you as well Dean. If you wouldn’t mind, why don’t we both get cleaned up as best we can, then reconvene in my office in 10 minutes?”

Castiel can tell Dean loathes to agree, but he has him trapped.

“Sounds good Mr Shurley, see you in 10.”

Unbidden, as if compelled by forces beyond him, he replies, “Please, call me Cas.”

_***_

“ _Shit, shit shit shit shit_ ,” Dean hisses as he attempts to clean himself up in the small bathroom.

He isn’t worried about his t-shirt, it’s not one of his prized vintage band t’s hard won in ebay auctions or rescued from dusty small town thrift shops, but rather something he randomly snagged from a novelty shop on a weekend trip to Atlantic City, because as Dean will readily admit, he’s powerless when faced with Jim Morrison shirtless.

But- he had done such a good job avoiding his new boss and nemesis, and now, now he has to sit down with him and attempt to play nice.

Not to mention, Mr Shur- no, _Cas_ is HOT, all caps, bolded, underlined thrice, with an endless string of exclamation points.

His hair is still a wreck, even more so than that first day, but he’s shed his blazer, lost the tie, top three buttons undone on a dress shirt half untucked.

Overwhelmed looks damn good on him. Even the dark circles underneath just bring out the blue of his eyes.

The spilled coffee turning his white dress shirt translucent, that doesn’t help either. The lower left side of his torso drenched reveals a flat stomach with just a hint of roundness beneath his belly button, and a hip bone so sharp it could cut glass, drawing the eye to the defined V leading into well fitted trousers that probably cost more than Dean’s entire wardrobe.

Dean is definitely, absolutely fucked in the not fun way.

“ _Shit_.”

_***_

“I’m glad we’re finally getting this opportunity to talk. I’ll be upfront with you, when I met with Mr Singer to discuss the transition in ownership he made it very clear that you were the man I need on my side if I want to save this magazine. Tell me Dean, can we be allies?”

The answer, much to Castiel’s dismay, is decidedly no.

Also, Dean is gorgeous when he’s angry.

_***_

**The remainder of January through the first week of February 2015**

The fight stays the same, Castiel pushes for coverage of more popular artists, not in lieu of the underground music coverage Salt ’n’ Burn is famous for, but in addition to it.

Dean balks every time. They meet daily and one or the other ends up storming out of Castiel’s office furious.

Yet still-

**Snapshots**

The sky is a smattering of fat clouds, and the light coming in through Castiel’s half open blinds into the office is mottled, painting Dean’s freckles in warmth and shadow.

Dean is drinking out of a mug that reads “World’s Greatest Reporter” and when Castiel compliments the mug even the poor light does nothing to hide the flush as Dean shyly explains that it’s a gift from his mother.

Castiel is maybe a little in love.

***

Dean hates these meetings, they never go well, and yet-

Castiel is so earnest, and Dean can tell he really does care, and every time those big blue eyes implore him, he hates himself a little, and hates the way his heart flutters like a wounded bird.

***

They’re in each others faces, close enough to feel each hot exhale, Castiel is yelling, then Dean is yelling, then they’re both yelling, and Castiel has Dean shoved up against the door, and he half wants to hit him and half wants to bend him over the messy desk and just _take_ and then Dean is snarling-

“ _You know what, blow me, Cas!_ ”

And Castiel is too stunned to reply, and then Dean is shoving him, and storming out.

That night alone in his big lonely bed Castiel comes so hard it almost hurts.

***

It’s Dean’s birthday and Jo and Charlie drag him to The Roadhouse.

The band is some chick group. They have a synthesizer, and the singer is wearing a leotard and leg warmers like she fell out of an old aerobics video, and it’s so not Dean’s scene, but Jo is buying, and Dean never turns down free drinks.

Then Charlie has to open her big mouth.

“You getting the hot beef injection from the dreamy new boss yet?”

And Dean almost chokes on his beer, and he mentally amends his stance, he’s perfectly willing to turn down free drinks if they come with a side of interrogation, thoughts he doesn’t want to think about, and almost choking to death.

It marks 33 as the first birthday since Dean was 19 where he goes home sober and alone.

***

Dean has a cold and his nose is raw and his throat hurts and he doesn’t want to be in the office but he has another fucking meeting with Cas so here he is, and Cas is still pushing, and Dean snaps “So what, we put Taylor fucking Swift on the cover, destroy everything Bobby built, and I’m supposed to just _shake it off_?”

And then he realizes what he said and so fine sue him he likes that song, but maybe he doesn’t want anyone to know he likes that song, and goddamnit.

But Castiel huffs out this laugh, it’s small, but it’s maybe the best sound Dean has ever heard, even better than Sabbath on vinyl, and Cas has this smile, and shit, Dean never saw him smile before.

It’s tiny too, barely a quirk of the lip, but his eyes are gleaming, little crinkles at the sides.

And oh yeah, Dean is fucked.

***

Castiel is smiling, and laughing. _With Dean_.

And it’s good, so good, but he can’t help but notice that Dean isn’t well, and all he wants to do is bring him home, and wrap him up in blankets, and spoon feed him soup.

And oh yeah, he’s definitely in love.

****

**February 9th 2015**

They’re in Castiel’s office, same as every other day, except they aren’t fighting.

“I think I figured it out, how we do this in a way that we’ll both agree on, and that will please our current readers, while bringing in new ones.”

Dean resists rolling his eyes, because they’ve been here before, except this time, the excitement coming off Cas in waves is infectious. This time feels different.

“I was watching the Grammy’s last night-“

At that Dean can’t help but scoff.

“Really? _The Grammys_?”

“Dean, I run a music publication, of course I watched The Grammys.”

“Dude, I know I’ve said this before, but do you even _like_ music?”

“And as I’ve told you, yes. I have season pass boxes at both the Met and the Philharmonic.”

It’s like a dance they’ve been rehearsing, but never got the steps right before.

“Uh huh, right, Castiel Shurley, great patron of the arts. So tell me Cas, what’s this life-changing magazine-saving genius idea?”

“There was that performance, with Kanye West, Rihanna, and Paul McCartney, and I realized, _that’s it_!”

Dean hates to admit it, but he’s intrigued.

“Go on.” he encourages

Castiel gets a hint of that little gleaming smile in his eyes again.

“Popular artists and icons, interviewing each other. We can put one of our writers with them to moderate.”

“So like, Kanye and Sir Paul?”

“Exactly, and others too.”

It all begins taking shape in Dean’s head, Taylor Swift and Carly Simon, Gerard Way and David Bowie, Pete Wentz and Mick Jagger. It really is genius.

“Wait, how is a small magazine like Salt ’n’ Burn supposed to get any of these big names to agree to this?”

Castiel full on beams, “Dean, you’re a Garrison Publication now, that part is easy.”

***

**February 10th 2015**

Conflict resolved, and things looking up for the magazine and Dean’s future employment, he can focus on his other problem.

Google is no help, the answers to “How to get your boss to fall in love with you without getting canned” decidedly not helpful.

So Dean decides to go with a classic, the mix CD.

***

He should be happy, his first weekly editor’s brunch with all the Garrison top brass since his takeover of Salt ’n’ Burn with genuine good news to share. Even current CEO Dick Roman gave him his patented greasy smile.

But instead-

Bela Talbot, Editor-In-Chief of Cosmopolitan, is knocking back her 4th mimosa to his left, laughing with Balthazar Roche, the style director for GQ, about something that happened at some pre-fashion week event, when Bela notices Castiel’s glum mood, and swoops in like a vulture who spotted some prime carrion.

“ _Castiel_ ,” she purrs,”you look even more dour than usual, though I’m not sure who could blame you, surrounded as you are by the unkempt, socially stunted, fashion disasters at your new ‘magazine’.”

And god, he can actually _hear_ the scare quotes around magazine.

He’d be offended, except, well, Bela is actually exactly who he needs, much to his dismay. A good third of her magazine is dedicated to ‘how to get your man’ schemes, and Castiel would very much like to get his man, but unfortunately lacks the practical knowledge on how to even begin trying.

“Bela,” he replies in a practiced monotone, “actually, I could use your help.”

As he says it, he can actually feel the disapproving stare coming from Naomi Tapping, Editor-In-Chief of Vogue and his former boss.

She’s probably right, but he’s desperate.

***

**February 13th 2015**

**12 noon**

It’s a terrible plan. The CD is burning a hole straight through Dean’s coat pocket right into his heart.

What, are they in high school? A mix CD? To win over his out-of-his-league boss? Dean is an idiot.

He tosses the CD in his desk, but it haunts him. He keeps inching the drawer open to stare at it, shiny plastic staring back.

It’s a decent mix, a coy open with Waiting For The Man by The Velvet Underground, into the Hole cover of Pale Blue Eyes, because it’s shitty mix CD etiquette to put two songs by the same band right in a row. There’s a little cheese in the form of Elton John’s Your Song, and a lot of cheese in the form of Warrant’s Heaven, leading in to Sweet Child O’ Mine courtesy of G N’ R, and closing with an unequivocal sex invite via Zepp’s Whole Lotta Love. All held together with duct tape and safety pins masquerading as some of Dean’s favorite rock n roll love songs, the guilty pleasures and the cool cred anthems.

It’s not a bad CD. It’s just a stupid idea, and Cas is never going to fall for it.

 _Shit._ Here’s to another goddamn Valentine’s Day.

***

**3 PM**

It’s a terrible plan, but it’s too late to back out now.

Castiel makes himself as conspicuous as possible, placing the expensive assortment of chocolates on the counter in the break room just as Charlie, Jo, and Dean walk in.

Charlie of course notices, which was Castiel’s goal.

“Oooh, boss! Valentine’s chocolates, very nice! Who are they from?”

Castiel sees Dean’s face fall, and Jo places a comforting hand on his shoulder that he quickly shrugs aside.

God this was a terrible plan. What are they, in high school? Trying to make his crush jealous with a fake boyfriend? Force him to confess his feelings like they’re in some cliché romantic comedy? Bela Talbot is a viper.

“Oh, umm, just this man I’ve been seeing.”

Point of fact, they are not. Castiel bought them himself, just to orchestrate this exact moment, because Bela swore this would work. Castiel is an idiot.

“Is he dreamy? I bet he’s dreamy.” Charlie gushes, oblivious to Castiel’s discomfort, and Dean’s crestfallen look.

She steals a chocolate, raspberry cream, Castiel’s favorite, because this is the worst day ever.

“Umm, yes, yes, he’s quite handsome.”

It’s not exactly a lie, his pretend boyfriend is rather handsome. And arrogant enough to remind everyone within a 100 mile radius that he knows it.

And just so soon as Balthazar can get away from the GQ offices he should be showing up with flowers, and to very publicly ask Castiel to dinner.

When Castiel finishes replying to Charlie and glaring disapprovingly at her for stealing the raspberry cream, he surreptitiously slides his eyes to look at Dean, only to discover the man has vanished out of the break room, “World’s Greatest Reporter” mug abandoned empty next to the fresh pot of coffee.

***

**3:10 PM**

Dean is slouched down at his desk, glaring into space while simultaneously trying to hide, like a student hoping not to be called on.

He’s meant to have a meeting with Castiel later, otherwise he would have already left. They’re supposed look over the mock-ups Sarah put together for the magazine’s new look. Still black and white inside, but on better quality paper, with a full color glossy cover, much to Dean’s dismay.

Yet another change. Dean loathes change. Especially when that change comes in the form of a surprise boyfriend Cas has never mentioned before.

Here he was, thinking Cas liked him too, wanted him back.

He can feel the mix CD silently judging him from inside the drawer.

***  
****

**4:53 PM**

Dean won’t even look at him, and it’s driving him mad. This was all a terrible idea. It’s too late now though, like a freight train bearing down on him, Balthazar is blazing his way into the offices, a completely over the top ostentatious bouquet of red roses in hand.

“Darling!” he calls out as he approaches Castiel, air kisses on each side of his face, “Happy almost Valentine’s Day.”

He presents the flowers to Castiel with a flourish.

Dean’s looking now.

Castiel’s heart is in his throat, clogging it up and blocking his words. Balthazar pays him no mind, happily putting on his performance.

“I couldn’t bear to wait til tomorrow, so I decided we’d do Valentine’s a day early. Have dinner with me tonight?”

The whole office is watching, even Kevin looks horrified, wearing the sort of face one would make upon witnessing a tragic car crash.

It’s Castiel’s cue, but he’s messing up all his lines, he can’t do this, but he has to, it’s too late, he’s blown it.

He manages to choke out, “I, I, I’m sorry, I can’t tonight, I have a meeting. Per-perhaps tomorrow?”

“I suppose I can wait.” Balthazar replies with an exaggerated put upon sigh, then going completely off script he leans in for a kiss.

The last thing Castiel sees before Balthazar’s stupid face blocks his view of the room and all the appalled onlookers is Dean standing from his desk and tugging open the top drawer.

It’s only at the slam of the office door that Balthazar steps back.

“Ta, darling.” he says with a cheeky wink before sauntering out.

Dean is gone, the only trace of him a shiny CD jewel case resting on top of the overflowing waste paper basket next to his desk.

Castiel walks over, feeling like he’s wading through quicksand as his heart tries desperately to reassemble itself.

He picks up the case and flips it over to the front, sharpied on in Dean’s messy scrawl the CD reads “For Castiel”.

Castiel, true to form, had misread everything. He hadn’t needed to win Dean over at all, he already had him, and lost him before he even realized.

Maybe he can fix it. Even at the height of their conflicts Dean never missed one of their meetings. He’s hotheaded, certainly, but his dedication to the magazine, to his career, that’s always come first. Castiel can only hope.

He carries the mix CD to his office, quietly shuts the door behind himself and turns the old lock, then slumps into his chair, elbows on his desk, CD between them, and face resting in his hands.

7 PM can’t come soon enough.

***

**7 PM**

Dean is holed up in his crappy apartment glaring at the 3 empty beer bottles on his scratched up second hand coffee table, the only booze he’d managed to scrounge up in the whole place when he got home from the worst day-before-Valentine’s Day of his life. Friday the motherfucking 13th indeed.

He finally got inside his door at a quarter after 6 thanks to public transportation, and not for the first time did he regret having to leave his precious Impala in Kansas. Stupid fucking NYC traffic. He’s been debating going out for hard liquor ever since, craving a whiskey burn, but at the same time getting up off his lumpy sofa seems like more effort than he has in him at the moment.

Instead he burrows further down under the afghan his mother made for him when he went off to college. He’s wearing his comfiest flannel pajama bottoms and a vintage Motorhead shirt that’s tissue thin and softer than silk, and he still feels like shit. He’s listening to The Smiths for fuck’s sake.

Seven-oh-oh is blinking at him on the ancient VCR clock and he knows where he’s meant to be and he doesn’t want to think about it, doesn’t want to think about anything. Wants to close his eyes and pretend he doesn’t exist, but instead every time he closes his eyes he sees some posh jackass in a purple velvet blazer and a near indecent V-neck leaning in and kissing _his_ Castiel. God but he was stupid, to ever think a fancy, important guy like Cas would want a schlub like him.

Maybe putting on his literal big boy pants and walking down to the liquor store wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

Actually, fuck that. Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day, a buffet of desperate singles, he’s going to stay sober tonight, and tomorrow he’ll go out fresh and hangover free and he’ll fuck this stupid crush right out of his system.

Somehow the prospect isn’t nearly as satisfying as it should be.

He burrows even further into the couch and hopes that Morrissey will sing him to a dreamless sleep.

***

**7:05 PM**

_Dean isn’t coming. Dean isn’t coming. He’s ruined everything, and Dean isn’t coming._

It’s playing a constant medley in his head, drowned out every attempt to listen to the wonderful CD Dean made him.

Back when Dean wanted him.

Back before he took Bela’s terrible advice and ruined everything.

_Because he’s ruined everything. Dean isn’t coming. Dean isn’t coming._

But maybe he can go to Dean?

***

**7:48 PM**

He manages to harass the Garrison car service driver, Gadreel, into making the half hour drive out to Queens in 22 minutes. It takes him 3 minutes to buy a bundle of wilting multicolored daisies at a corner store. It takes him another 2 minutes to race down the sidewalk and up the 3 flights of stairs to Dean’s apartment. Now he’s faced with a tarnished brass 401 and the most intimidating door he’s ever faced, including that of the Harvard admissions office.

He knocks. Hearing nothing inside but the murmur of music, he knocks again and again.

There’s a thump, a shuffle, clomping irritated footsteps, and then the door swings open.

***

He’s halfway between awake and asleep, caught up in a fantasy where Cas realizes he belongs with Dean and not the smarmy British asshole from the office, and he’s drifting closer and closer to the side of sleep, the pillow drawing a roadmap on his face.

There’s a noise like a knock, but he knows it’s not for him, the only people who ever come over are Charlie and Jo, and they’re off at some theme motel for a Valentine’s role-play sex weekend.

It’s probably for the upstairs neighbor, Dean thinks the guy, Aaron, might be a drug dealer, because people are in and out of his place at all hours.

Dean nuzzles back into his pillow to try to get back to his happy fantasy, when another knocks sounds.

It’s definitely his door, and someone is banging on it. If it’s Thai for Pamela down the hall, _again_ , he’s paying for it and keeping it for himself.

He half falls off the sofa, and rolls mid-air to right himself, feet hitting the floor hard, then he stomps to the door, annoyed and hungry.

He swings open the door.

It’s not Thai.

“Cas?”

***

There’s no other word for it, even wearing his misery on his sleeve, sleep rumpled Dean is adorable.

Words failing him, Cas thrusts out the bouquet like a little boy presenting dandelions to his mother, something Castiel was thoroughly reprimanded for the one time he tried it, dandelions being ‘filthy weeds’ according to the late Mrs Shurley.

Dean looks like he thinks Castiel might be a hallucination, but accepts the flowers anyway.

“Cas?” he repeats, “What are you doing here?”

He doesn’t sound angry, just confused, confused and sad. Cas can fix that, he’s sure. He’s good at fixing things, or at least he tries.

“I,” his damn heart is in his throat again, he clears it and tries again, “I found your CD. Also, I may not have been completely truthful with everyone today, with you.”

Dean steps back into his apartment, cocks his head for Cas to follow. He sets the flowers down on an old coffee table and keeps walking. Castiel stands awkwardly near the door.

“About what exactly?” Dean asks over his shoulder as he walks into another room.

As Castiel gathers himself, Dean returns with a glass pitcher half full of water, and carefully removes the paper from the bouquet.

Castiel begins speaking as Dean unloops the rubber band.

“The man, the candy, the flowers, umm…” He trails off, afraid to make himself so vulnerable, but then Dean looks up from arranging the daisies in the pitcher, and Castiel sees hope in his eyes, and finds the bravery to continue, “All of that, it was fake.”

Dean freezes, pitcher of flowers midway to placed on the table and trash crumpled in his other hand, and he stares at Castiel, and his face-

The want, the yearning, it’s all there, naked and blatant and waiting.

“Fake?” Dean croaks out.

Castiel nods, “Fake.” he confirms.

“But why?”

Castiel gestures to Dean’s sofa, “May I?”

Dean nods, and shoves the homey knitted afghan into the crook of the far arm of the couch, sitting down next to Castiel, turned to face him, their knees shyly knocking together.

“I,” and Castiel blushes, because he knows how juvenile it’ll sound, “I liked you, I _like_ you, a lot, but I don’t have much experience, with dating, or really with people outside of business. I got some advice, that clearly was very very bad.”

Dean makes a tiny noise, a mix of surprise, and a shocked laugh. “Still, I don’t understand why you didn’t just _say something_?”

Castiel flushes further, and then starts ticking off reasons on his fingers, “Let’s see, there's the part where I’m _your boss_ , making me coming on to you quite possibly illegal” he ticks a second finger, “there’s the part where you frequently seemed like you were considering murdering me and dumping my body in the Hudson River” and Dean makes a noise of complaint, but Castiel pays him no mind and ticks a third finger, “and lastly, but possibly most important, you are unfairly, incomprehensibly, impossibly handsome. A part of me thought maybe? You could be interested in me? But the logical part of me was sure I was imagining it. After all, a man like you, wanting a man like me?” Castiel huffs a self deprecating laugh, “That’s just ludicrous.”

Dean takes Castiel’s hand, gentle like he’s afraid he’ll disappear if he moves too quickly.

“No.” He says firmly, and Castiel balks, because maybe he misread everything, but before he can work himself into a panic, Dean continues, “What’s ludicrous is _you_ wanting _me_. You’re incredible Cas, you’re- shit, for starters you’re gorgeous, those goddamn eyes, I swear to God, and you just, you went to _Harvard_.”

“NYU is a good school.” Cas interrupts.

“Shush, let me finish,” Castiel complies, “You’ve travelled the world, you wear _suits_ and not JC Penney off the rack specials, but with tailoring and shit, you speak 3 languages, and you, you challenge me. God do you challenge me, and by all means I should hate you for it, but you’re almost always right, and for the record I should hate you for that too, but instead, you _push_ me, and you make me better, and I don’t hate you at all, fuck Cas, I don’t, I, goddamnit Cas, I lo-“

He doesn’t get to finish though, because Castiel’s mouth is on his, and they’re kissing, and those lips aren’t rough at all, they’re plump, plush, pressing, and gliding, and his tongue is teasing at Dean’s and it’s Heaven, this is Heaven, right here, Cas climbing into Dean’s lap and Dean snaking off his tie as Cas gets a good grip on Dean’s hair and tugs, tilting Dean’s head back and exposing his neck, collarbones peeking out of the stretched collar of his t-shirt, and Castiel, buttoned-up, stubborn Castiel should _not_ know how to use his mouth like that, but praise every God in the universe that he does because they’ve barely began and he’s already taking Dean apart completely, piece by piece.

A spring from Dean’s piece of shit sofa digs into his spine as Cas presses him down into the cushions, and it pulls him from his reverie.

“Bedroom.” he manages to gasp out.

He can feel Castiel nod as he continues sucking and laving at Dean’s neck, leaving the sort of marks Dean would be hard pressed to explain to his boss, if his boss weren’t perched astride him merrily making them.

Dean groans and arches his back, pelvis pressing up against matching hardness and maybe moving is overrated, but then he drops back down to the sofa and that spring gets him again, and firmer he repeats, “Cas, bedroom.”

Castiel stands, and reaches for Dean’s hand, tugging him off the couch.

Once standing they reverse, Dean taking the lead and pulling Cas behind him toward his bedroom.

He steps through the door and turns to Castiel, intending to apologize for the clutter, an old glass of water and a stack of rockstar biographies strewn across his nightstand, bed unmade and covers rumpled, a pile of dirty clothes on the reappropriated kitchen chair in the corner next to his closet, but instead his mouth goes dry and all apologies are forgotten because Cas is unbuttoning the dress shirt Dean had already yanked loose from his trousers, and more and more perfect lightly tanned, smooth olive skin is being revealed under the warmth of the cheap Ikea CFL in the bedside lamp, and blue eyes gone navy with desire are staring Dean down like Castiel wants to devour him whole.

God help him, Dean’ll let him too.

***

Castiel knows he should probably try and get a good look at Dean’s room, give a setting to what he’s sure will be the single best memory of his entire life, but there’s this flush going from Dean’s checks and across the bridge of his nose where it highlights his freckles, leading down into the collar of his shirt, and decorated with a smattering of hickies blooming like roses along Dean’s neck and collarbones. It leads to his chest which is rising like he’s fighting for air, and his stomach is rising in tandem, softness that Castiel would very much like to sink his teeth into showing visible under aged cotton. His delectable belly leads Castiel’s eyes down further to the impressive tent jutting out proudly in a plaid flannel wrapper, loose pajama pants still not enough to hide the bow legs Castiel has been fantasizing about for the past month and change, and all the sudden it’s a tragedy that Castiel is way over here, at least 3 feet from the object of his desire, instead of wrapped up in those legs where he belongs.

He sheds his shirt, cuffs momentarily trying to catch at his wrists, then steps toward Dean as he unclasps his belt and unhooks his trousers. He abandons the effort to shed his pants when he reaches his partner.

Hands settled at the hem of Dean’s shirt he makes eye contact, “May I?”

Dean nods, swallows, speaks “Fuck yeah.”

Castiel grins, and tugs Dean’s shirt up and over his head.

He’s just as solidly built as he felt like he’d be back when Castiel slammed into him that first day they’d spoken.

Momentarily Castiel wishes very hard that he had grabbed chocolates alongside the daisies, so he could run them along Dean’s heated skin, let the chocolate melt, and write a love letter into Dean’s flesh with the point of his tongue.

He’s distracted from his fantasy by wide palms settling at his hip bones and pulling him to Dean’s body, skin against skin, and Dean licking his way back into Castiel’s mouth.

Dean’s walking backwards, still kissing Castiel breathless, then they’re tumbling, and Castiel is exactly where he’s meant to be, cradled between bow legs, knees resting against cushioning memory foam, and cock pressed snug up against Dean’s.

He ruts forward, and Dean presses back into it, moans.

Castiel doesn’t know much about music, but he’s relatively certain none of it can compare to the sounds coming out of Dean’s mouth.

Greedy hands are at Castiel’s zipper fumbling and trying to tug it down, and he rears up, shedding pants and boxers at once, awkwardly clambering out of them as he kicks off his wingtips, all three hitting the floor, swiftly followed by his socks.

Still on his knees, ass set back on his calves, he pulls off Dean’s pajama bottoms, finds him bare underneath, cock already glistening with precum, and Dean’s pants deposited on the floor, Castiel can’t stop himself from dipping down for a taste.

Dean is sour on his tongue, but he tastes warm and alive, and he’s real and here, here with Castiel in his bed, and it’s everything Castiel ever wanted.

He licks his way up Dean’s length with the flat of his tongue, and he can feel the thick vein pulse, then as he reaches the fat mushroom head it jumps, asking permission and quickly being invited into the wet suction of Castiel’s lips.

Dean thrusts up like he can’t stop himself, and Castiel presses a forearm to a fleshy hip to keep him in place, then hums his agreement.

There are fingers in his hair, tugging gently but insistently, and Dean’s voice, “Fuck, fuck, you gotta stop, c’mere, c’mere, don’t wanna come yet.” and Castiel is powerless to do anything but obey.

He settles back between Dean’s legs and ruts aimlessly against him as Dean kisses the taste of himself straight out of Castiel’s mouth, and then Dean is leaning away, and that won’t do, so as Dean stretches his arm toward the nightstand, craning his neck to see that he’s reaching in the right direction, mouth otherwise unoccupied Castiel latches onto Dean’s pulse point to see if he can get the left side of his neck to match the right.

Then Dean is pressing something into Castiel’s hands, a bottle, _lube_ Castiel’s brain supplies dumbly, and this is really happening, and a part of him still can’t believe it.

“Please.” Dean begs, a cross between a sigh and a whisper, and Castiel couldn’t deny him even if he wanted to.

Cas pulls back just long enough for Dean to flip onto his belly and invite Castiel back to the crook of his thighs, and then, lube ignored for the time being, Castiel smooths his hands down hot freckled flesh to the paler skin of Dean’s perfect ass, he spreads Dean wide and doesn’t hesitate to dive in.

Tongue working and Dean writhing Castiel tries his damnedest to lick his way straight to Dean’s core.

Dean is pushing back as the point of Cas’ tongue presses forward, teasing at the rosebud ring of rapidly relaxing muscle.

Dean is begging and pleading and gasping, writing Castiel a private symphony as Castiel dictates the notes back into his flesh. One of Dean’s hands reaches back, grasping at the messy hair at the crown of Castiel’s head, unashamedly pulling Castiel closer and deeper, and at that Castiel reaches for the lube and slicks his fingers.

It’s quick work spreading Dean open, he’s so ready for it, so needy and wanting, biting down and practically growling his demands into his pillow, and it’s not long before one slick finger becomes four, working over Dean’s prostate like a concert pianist, pulling sounds from Dean Castiel is determined nobody else will ever have a chance to hear again.

He slides his fingers loose and implores Dean, “Turn over, please, I want to see your face.”

Then he’s rolling on the condom with shaking hands as Dean watches him with a face full of wonder, and he’s pressing in, zero resistance, and he’s sliding home, and Dean is so hot inside and tight and Castiel is drowning in him and he has to hold still for a moment, long fingers clamped at the base of his cock, staving off the orgasm that tried to sneak up and surprise him.

But then Dean’s pushing back, pulling Castiel in, demanding, “Move, Cas, move.” and Castiel is powerless to deny Dean anything, and he thrusts.

It’s slick with lube and the glide is effortless as he picks up the pace, punching a duet of moans and sighs out of both of them, and then what feels much too soon, Dean cries out “Castiel!” and he’s coming untouched, streams of molten white shooting all over his stomach, and Castiel is pulling out, and removing the condom as fast as he can, jerking himself off, just two pumps and his spend is spilled all over Dean as well, then he’s rubbing it all into Dean’s flesh, something deep and primal demanding that part of him needs to become part of Dean, so no matter what happens after, Dean will always carry him embedded in his skin, and Dean seems to like it because his spent cock twitches and he’s pulling Cas back down to kiss him til they’re both dizzy.

***

**12 AM February 14th 2015**

Dean rolls off of Castiel, thighs still shaking with the effort of round two, and as Castiel careful discards the condom and cleans himself up with his long forgotten boxers, Dean happens to glance at the alarm clock.

Castiel, resettled on the bed, arms folded against the pillow and above his head, blissed out and content, is engulfed by 6’1’’ of human octopus, thigh tossed over his, nuzzling at his ear and pressing kisses to the hinge of his jaw.

Castiel laughs in shock, “Again, already?”

Dean snorts, “Ha, maybe 15 years ago. But no, just noticed the time is all.”

Castiel turns to check for himself, then turns back to Dean, pressing a kiss to his lips, and he can feel Dean smiling as he’s sure Dean can feel him too, and Castiel pulls back just far enough to whisper against Dean’s lips, “Happy Valentine’s day, Dean.”

It’s not long after they both drift off to sleep, wrapped up in each others arms. The last thing Castiel hears before he’s out like a light Dean murmuring, “Think’m n’love with you.”

***

**1:38 PM February 14th 2015**

Castiel wakes slowly, what may well be the universe’s most comfortable, and very much not his own, mattress cradling him. It’s the latest he’s slept since, God, he’s pretty sure he never slept this late in his life.

His first conscious thought is ‘Dean’ but the man is no longer wrapped around Castiel, rather the other half of the bed is empty, and cool to the touch, so it’s been awhile since its other occupant has been present.

Castiel doesn’t have time to worry though, he can clearly hear noise from out in the apartment, Dean singing, and plates and cutlery clattering.

Castiel’s boxers are crusted with dried come, so he digs in Dean’s dresser and steals a pair, then snags Dean’s abandoned t-shirt from the night before.

As dressed as he has any intention of being at the moment, Castiel wanders out into the apartment, following off key warbling and place setting sounds into the kitchen, where Dean is pulling a plate of something out of the oven.

When he turns to set the food down on the small formica table, he spots Cas, and his whole face lights up.

“Hey,” he greets simply, “made us some breakfast.”

Castiel beams back at him, “I can see that.”

Dean gestures for Cas to have a seat, and that’s when Castiel sees their meal.

Heart shaped pancakes, strawberries with the tops neatly sliced off, and whipped cream.

Dean looks torn between being proud, and embarrassed. It’s a good look on him.

Dean sits down across from Castiel, and waits for some sort of response.

Castiel’s sense of tact is never the best, and first thing upon waking it’s even worse, so he can’t be blamed for smirking and asking “You just happened to have strawberries and whipped cream in your fridge?”

Dean flushes, and if there’s weren’t such a nice breakfast on the table Castiel would be tempted to drag Dean back to bed to chase that flush with his tongue.

“I might have had high hopes for the mix CD and our meeting last night.”

“Mr Winchester,” Castiel says in mock indignation, “were you planning to seduce me?”

It’s Dean’s turn to smirk, “It worked, didn’t it?”

***

**Epilogue**

It’s late March when the Spring issue comes out, Gerard Way and David Bowie side by side on the cover in matching Aladdin Sane makeup.

They get a handful of angry letters and cancelled subscriptions, but the overall response is hugely positive, both from old readers, and new. The newsstand sales are record setting, the best the magazine has ever had, and by holding back portions of the interview to post online, they manage to drive up web traffic too, meaning more ad revenue. It’s a complete success.

Dean knows now he was wrong, Castiel didn’t destroy Salt ’n’ Burn, nor did he ruin Dean’s life. Instead he saved the magazine, and Dean.

They celebrate that night just the two of them, with heart shaped pancakes, and later with chocolate melted on heated flesh, love letters written into skin.

**Author's Note:**

> Some quick notes. In content Salt ’n’ Burn is modeled after two magazines, Magnet and The Big Takeover. In aesthetic I pictured something akin to Maximum Rock’n’Roll. The interview format Cas suggests is blatantly stolen from Interview magazine. Garrison Publications is modeled after Condé Nast. Bela Talbot exists here as a contemporary version of Helen Gurley Brown, and Naomi as a fictionalized version of Anna Wintour. Balthazar is mostly Balthazar, but with more than a smidge of Simon Doonan thrown in. 
> 
> My musical tastes are very much not underground macho rock n roll, nor classic rock, but rather similar to the band Jo and Charlie drag Dean to see on his birthday (the description of the singer for that band stolen from Peaches, the sound imagined as something in between Le Tigre and Gravy Train!!!!) hence why Dean’s mix CD description is only a handful of songs and a lot of vagueness. 
> 
> Salt ’n’ Burn staff include:
> 
> Dean Winchester- Americana, roots rock, classic rock reissues, promoted to Associate Editor under Castiel (often quite literally under Castiel, though sometimes on top as well)  
> Kevin Tran- all matters of metal, also unofficial accountant/circulation expert and ad sales  
> Jo Harvelle- Lady bands, punk and indie  
> Rufus Turner- Blues and classic country  
> Charlie Bradbury- Web design/support and social media, also Europop, K-pop, J-pop  
> Sarah Blake- art director
> 
> Freelancers include:  
> Benny Lafitte- Alt country, zydeco, world music  
> Victor Henriksen- Hip hop, dance music, rockabilly (he and Dean had a one time hookup after a Reverend Horton Heat show and have been just a little bit awkward ever since)  
> Ash- noise, experimental, reggae and ska  
> Jody Mills- classical and jazz
> 
> Once Garrison took over the magazine, Alfie was brought on as a social media intern, though Charlie mostly uses him to fetch snacks and stalk ebay for rare comics. 
> 
> I’m a really huge fan of the Interview Magazine format where two celebrities interview each other. My headcanons for the combos Dean mentioned: TSwift and Carly Simon discuss being women in the industry struggling for legitimacy when everyone is more interested in knowing who your songs are about rather than being interested in the quality of your songs. Gerard Way and David Bowie discuss creating personas, and rock n roll as theater. Pete Wentz and Mick Jagger discuss dodging attempts to be turned into pin ups while trying to function as the members of bands constantly put in the spotlight, and the struggles to maintain equal footing with their band mates in light of that attention. 
> 
> Sam is married to Jessica. Obviously. Sam is always married to Jessica, it’s the law. 
> 
> There’s a mangled Dismemberment Plan lyric hidden in here, as well as a Breakfast Club reference, a Clueless reference, and a Gilmore Girls reference. Props to whoever finds them.
> 
> Thanks to the Destiel Smut Brigade for allowing me to join in on the fun.


End file.
